


Shades of Sunset

by darkbluebox



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Growing and Healing, Kidnapping, M/M, Morning Kisses, POV Andrew Minyard, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Recovery, soft angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26301169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkbluebox/pseuds/darkbluebox
Summary: Andrew is five years old, and he thinks orange is the most beautiful colour in the world.Twenty years in the life of Andrew Minyard.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 58
Kudos: 268





	Shades of Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: child abuse, implied CSA, mild injury, blood, physical displays of affection
> 
> I was goofing around with arch about Andrew's love-hate relationship with orange, and then I started having feelings about it. Bon appetit.

Andrew is five years old, and he thinks orange is the most beautiful colour in the world.

It’s the colour of his favourite popsicle flavour, or what he’s sure _would_ be his favourite popsicle flavour if Mrs Dunnard ever bought them popsicles. Instead, she buys the same tasteless frozen meals over and over again, oven fries or chicken nuggets or potato smileys. Andrew lets the smileys turn to mush as he fights the other foster kids for elbow room at the kitchen table, but he doesn’t smile back at the wobbly potato faces. He clears his plate all the same, because the kids who don’t get smacked.

He presses his face up against the glass in the freezer aisle and imagines the taste of sunset on his tongue.

Andrew is seven years old, and the upstairs neighbours have a ginger tabby cat. It winds around his ankles when he’s hiding in the backyard, a bright beacon amongst the dirt and scrub of the cracked earth, and Andrew can’t help but reach for it like a moth drawn in by candlelight. For a single, fragile moment, Andrew’s trembling fingers meet something warm and soft, softer than Andrew can ever remember feeling. Then the cat twists around and sinks its claws into Andrew’s arm.

Andrew clutches his forearm to his chest, watching as beads of red well up and glisten before dribbling down towards his fingertips. It’s a new kind of pain, stinging, sharper than the bruises he has grown accustomed to, but he doesn’t cry. Crying never made it stop. The next time the tabby comes near him, Andrew throws rocks until it bolts for cover with a hiss. He watches as it scrambles over the peeling fenceposts and out of sight, wishing he could follow it into the wilderness.

Andrew is twelve years old, and when Cass sees him staring at the creamy-yellow wallpaper of what will soon be his own bedroom, she asks what his favourite colour is. Andrew tries to remember the last time someone asked, the last time someone cared, and for once his perfect memory draws an absolute blank.

“Orange,” he whispers, and Cass lights up. Together, they coat the walls with marigold paint, and when Andrew spills it down his front, Cass just laughs. His room is so bright that it almost glows, painting Cass in warm, saturated hues as they sit side-by-side, puzzling through Andrew’s homework until the rattle of keys in the front door alerts them to the rest of the household’s return. The sunbeam colours of day paint his world into a hazy mirage of safety, and for that Andrew suffers the blood-orange nights that follow. Soon, however, the light and dark bleed into each other like watercolour paints, and Andrew decides that if he cannot have one without the other, then it is safest to want nothing at all.

Andrew is fourteen years old, and he is sick to death of orange. The juvie uniform is offensively orange, as though trying to burn the observer’s eyes out, as stark a warning as possible: _approach with caution_. Andrew pulls the starchy, cheap cotton over his head, and it feels as though he has worn nothing else all his life. He lets himself tumble into the faceless sea of uniform faces, not caring where the tides will take him.

Andrew is eighteen years old, and he wishes he could be surprised when Dan pushes the fox fur-orange windbreaker into his arms, but under the ebb and flow of drug-induced mania there is truly no feeling at all. Of course the universe would continue to taunt him with too-bright uniforms that cling to him like wet sand, scratching at his lungs as he breathes around a sewn-up smile. _Minyard_ , it says in white lettering, as though the neat stitching can tie him into this ludicrous new life with the power of a name that barely feels like his own. If their coach thinks that putting them all in one horrendous colour will magic them into a team, he has another thing coming. _Uniform_ does not mean _unity_ , and Andrew stands in the goal and watches distant sunburnt figures grapple and tumble across the court, stick loose in his hand. When the ball shoots past him, he doesn’t even flinch.

They can tell him what it means to wear these colours and stand on this court until the cows come home; Andrew doesn’t care. Nothing gets under his skin anymore.

Andrew is nineteen years old, sitting in the plastic stadium seats and watching as their newest recruit races across the court. He’s a blur of orange and white, quicker than a fox and twice as sly, and Andrew doesn’t trust him an inch. He may have grown accustomed to passing his days engulfed in the campus colours that scream school pride from every street corner, but Neil makes the colour new all over again. Off the court, he hides himself in washed-out blues and greys, shrinking into his oversized hoodies as though hoping to be swallowed by them. On the court, however, there is no hiding, nor any inclination to. Neil stands on the court like he was born to rule it, throwing himself into the game with the kind of whole-hearted determination Andrew believed only Kevin was brain-dead enough to be capable of. Off the court, Neil treats the Foxes’ luminescent oranges like he would a target painted on his back. Here, he wears them like a shield.

He suits them.

Andrew doesn’t know what to make of their newest recruit, not yet. But he will.

Andrew is twenty years old, and something has gotten under his skin. The pipe dream in the shape of a man stares at him across the Easthaven hospital waiting room through unmasked, ice-blue eyes. Back at the dorms, Andrew takes him up on the roof, peels back the plaster to see the fresh tattoo bruising his cheek. _Not if it means losing you_ ¸ he says, and Andrew resists the urge to throw him off the roof then and there. His hair is a single drop of colour against the grey sky above, deep auburn like campfire embers. Andrew didn’t think Neil could have been any more of a danger until he returned from the nest beaten within an inch of his life, the new colours streaking through his hair like a warning, _threat, threat, threat._

Andrew looks at Neil, and puts a name to the burn of sensation flickering in his gut.

Andrew hates Neil, hates how softly he looks at him, hates the molten want that Neil pulls effortlessly through his veins. Above all, he hates the deep orange tint that now flits in and out of his periphery like the wings of a monarch butterfly as Neil buries himself into Andrew’s chest and fills his lungs with smoke. In the dead of night, Andrew imagines how soft Neil’s tousled curls would feel between his fingers, and wants, wants, wants for something he cannot let himself have. He remembers the sting of claws raking across his forearms all too well, knows where the path of wanting will take him if he isn’t careful.

Andrew hates orange, and hates Neil for making him feel anything about it at all. But he knows how to protect himself, knows how to keep himself back from the cliff-edge of feeling that nearly killed him once already. He won’t fall again.

Andrew is twenty years old, and Neil’s lips taste like sunset.

Andrew is twenty years old, and Andrew is falling. He laps the stadium once, twice, the dispersing rioters and flashing police cars blurring into a black jumble of sound and movement, but it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, because he can’t find Neil, and he had forgotten, forgotten how it felt to fall, to fear, _was this fear, was this-_

He almost misses the racquet lying battered and forgotten amidst empty soda cans and discarded ticket stubs. He picks it up as though he’s never seen one before, and even though the team colours have been scuffed and dirtied in the fight, it’s still the unmistakable Fox orange peeling between his fingers, white strings torn and unravelling. He picks up Neil’s bag, thumbs through his phone, and parts of him unravel too.

Andrew finds his way back to the team bus, takes one look at Kevin’s expression – broken, wild, and filled with a grief that couldn’t be explained by anything other than-

Andrew sees red.

Andrew is twenty years old, and for the last twelve hours his world has been nothing but shades of grey shot through by occasional bursts of uncontrollable wildfire-red. Dragging Wymack along behind him like a ball and chain, he sees the men standing outside the motel room, and the final thread of his control pulls and snaps as he shoulders his way inside, not caring if he breaks a wrist in his desperation, and then-

White plaster. Blue eyes. Auburn curls.

Safe.

Andrew is twenty-three years old, and his vision is swamped in sparkling bursts of confetti, a glittering shower of oranges and whites that tumble from the rafters like autumn leaves. The crowd is on their feet and screaming enough to shake the court’s foundations as the final score to end the season glows overhead. Neil collapses at the sound of the buzzer, striped orange bandana holding his auburn curls back from his face. They glow like embers in the stadium lights, which backlight his head like a halo. He turns to Andrew and smiles.

Andrew decides that orange isn’t so bad after all.

Andrew is twenty-five years old, against all odds. His team’s uniform is green. _Their_ team, as soon as Neil’s transfer paperwork goes through. Andrew won’t miss orange, much, but he will miss seeing Neil in it.

Or perhaps not. A blur of colour glides past his periphery, and Andrew pushes himself up in bed to watch as Neil pulls a jumper Andrew has never seen before over his head. He catches Andrew looking, and his lips quirk upwards.

“You like it?”

“No.” It’s something chunky and hand-knitted, perhaps a gift from one of the Foxes, and it hangs so long on Neil that the hems of his boxers barely peak past the bottom. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Neil glances down at his bare legs, then back up, smirking. “I don’t know, am I?” He rolls back onto the bed, which strikes Andrew as counterproductive to getting dressed, but he has no interest in complaining when Neil climbs into his lap, thighs pressing into him on either side. Andrew runs a hand along Neil’s leg against the grain of his hair, slow, pensive. His fingers soon collide with soft amber wool. Neil tilts his head teasingly to one side. “I thought orange was your favourite colour.”

Andrew tangles his fingers in the collar and uses it to tug Neil in against him. “I hate it,” he murmurs into Neil’s ear, and follows it with a brief press of his lips to the one point below Neil’s earlobe that always makes him shudder.

“Like you hate me?”

“Yes,” Andrew says.

When Neil’s lips meet his, they taste like sunset.

Andrew is twenty-five years old, and he thinks orange is the most beautiful colour in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> do other countries have those potato smiley things or was that just us
> 
> [My tumblr](https://darkblueboxs.tumblr.com) and [twitter.](https://twitter.com/darkblueboxs)


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